Let us stroll down this close-packed double row of little windowless stalls that resemble nothing so much as dog boxes in a canine show. See that old fellow with the Arab features and dress, working so industriously at his clumsy native loom: he is eighty if he is a day, and just as likely as not ten years older. Note the speed and skill with which his knotted old fingers do their work. He is weaving a silk scarf, a beautiful piece of work, which later on may adorn the shoulders of some harem favourite—or a New York belle. In the next stall squats a native tailor or vestment maker. Opposite him a spice merchant calls your attention to his wares, just as his forefathers did in the days of Abraham. A few yards farther and we come on a couple of young natives busily pounding away with heavy steel pestles in a mortar surely identical with the jars in which the Forty Thieves secreted themselves—scent and pot-pourri makers almost certainly. Squeezing past a mild-looking camel, which we do not trust, however, we almost stumble over a couple of silk spinners, an old man and a precocious-looking boy. The spinning-wheel might have come straight from an Irish cottage. The yarn is passed through the interstices of the boy's small white teeth, the idea being to clean it of foreign matter, I suppose. Flattening ourselves against a sweetmeat stall to permit of the passage of a train of heavily laden donkeys, our eyes are dazzled the while by a glimpse of a silk merchant's stock in the booth opposite; hanging to the walls, piled in huge heaps, and lying around anyhow, are scarves, robes, and vestments in all the colours of the rainbow. What would that stuff be worth in London or Melbourne? Who knows?... We turn the corner, dodge a cow and a goat that are being milked in the street, and find ourselves at the entrance door of a dealer in beaten brass and copper goods, Japanese ware, and antiques. This we enter, ignoring the protests of our guide, who would much prefer that our custom should go to the more flashy-looking store farther up the street—kept by his brother or uncle, most likely, and a first-rate house for buying Eastern curios and antiques _made in Birmingham_. You tell him so, insult the memory of his mother, and leave him to continue his protestations on the threshold. There are many things we should like to purchase. That pair of vases, for instance, so beautifully chased and inlaid with silver, price £20. Or that group representing a couple of Japanese wrestlers, dirt cheap at £18. Or that magnificent cabinet—— But our finances only run to two weeks' pay at two shillings per diem, so we turn our attention to flower-holders, candlesticks, and such-like cheaper lines of goods, enjoying the while a cup of excellent Egyptian coffee and some unusually good cigarettes at the expense of the proprietor. Shopping in Cairo is a slow game, so we kill an hour in the making of our purchases—and emerge with a balance still at the bank.